


First Contact

by Wheeljack



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Snarky Ryder, Sort of Spoilers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:45:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9483452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheeljack/pseuds/Wheeljack
Summary: Few things can properly prepare one for a first contact situation.





	1. Female Ryder

**Author's Note:**

> So there I was. Minding my own business, and chatting with some folks on the BSN forums, when the urge to write took me. It took very little encouragement to start this, even though I should know better. Ryder is snarky in this, despite my original plan of writing a more generalized personality.

Few things can properly prepare one for a first contact situation. There were rules and regulations, naturally. Steps one should take to avoid a diplomatic situation. Adopt a nonthreatening posture. Use an even, calm tone of voice. Be polite. Show respect.

That was, of course, assuming everything went smoothly.

If things went pear-shaped? Be prepared to either hit the deck or evac immediately. Screaming and yelling optional, but also unprofessional and highly discouraged.

Ryder was sure being led at gun point to whoever was in charge counted as a diplomatic situation. She had assured the crew she knew what she was doing. She had also assured them that she would have everything under control. She had a plan and a back up plan as well.

In truth, she had a half baked idea glued together with hope and sheer determination. Knowing what to do could never replace actual experience. She had learned that the hard way in basic training. Reading, seeing, and doing usually resulted in a tight rope dance of ravenous butterflies and internally flailing arms. The more important the duty, the more ravenous the butterflies.

It wasn't the only thing weighing her down either. The first time her race had made first contact, it had erupted into war with the Turians. They couldn't afford the same thing happening. Earth might as well not even exist for all the support they could send. 600 years would be too little too late.

She let her gaze sweep the growing crowd in front of her. It was hard to read the expressions on the unfamiliar alien faces. Hell, it was hard to read the expressions on some of her much more familiar alien crew. The atmosphere, however, felt tense, or perhaps it was all those eyes following her as she was led to the bottom of a short rise of stairs. They pressed in from every direction, curious and wary and _wondering_.

 _Who was this strange alien_ , they probably thought. _Friend? Foe? Something worse?_

 _Nervous_ , she thought back. _This strange alien is nervous as hell and hoping to be the former of that lot, thanks._

Outwardly, she stood straight and tall. Despite her inner emotions, she needed to project an aura of strength and calm. Being nervous would hardly impress anyone, not her crew and certainly not these people. Hope and sheer determination had gotten her this far, after all. Mentally shaking herself, her gaze rose up the stairs to land on the figures standing at the top. She assumed they were in charge, or at the very least, the highest ranking individuals in the vicinity able to deal with the situation.

Two very obviously armed guards stood on either side of three much slimmer figures. They struck her as more feminine than the larger, broad shouldered guards flanking them, but she'd already warned herself many times not to let her perceptions dictate fact in this new galaxy so far away from home. For all she knew, the gender roles were reversed here. She let her gaze jump from one to the next, studying them as they silently did the same.

The low key murmur of alien dialect suddenly changed in pitch, drawing her attention away from the would be females.

It was at that moment that intense blue eyes froze her to the spot as effectively as a direct hit from a cyro round. She wasn't sure where he'd come from. One moment she was making vague comparisons of the new aliens to the Asari and in the next he had strode purposely into her view.

His stride never faltered as he stepped down the stairs, his course and target no secret to anyone watching. She hardly noticed the crowd, nor the guards surrounding her. That all consuming gaze had rooted her to the spot and consumed any coherent thought. Later would come the embarrassment, the shame in freezing up when lives depended on her. In the there and then, she could not look away as the alien stepped straight into her personal space and stared her down.

Instinct screamed she not dare look away or blink. The slitted eyes spoke to some forgotten part of her, to ancestors who were both hunters and _hunted_. To look away - to show weakness - invited the hunt.

What only took a few seconds at most in reality, seemed to stretch on and on into forever. It was only when he finally shifted, when he finally spoke that the rest of her surroundings rushed back to her – when she remembered where she was and just what she was doing – that the damning spell of that gaze broke and she remembered to _breath_.

Later, when all was said and done, and she hadn't somehow started a war, she would tell her crew an abridged version of events. Later still, when she'd thrown herself into her room – not to hide, no, to _rest_ – she'd curse that strange alien over and over.

 _Jaal_ was his name.

She'd not soon forget it. His image was burned into her brain and no amount of will would banish it. It was as if she'd stared into the sun for just a bit too long and now the after image lingered every time she closed her eyes. She could have read the manual a hundred, thousand times, and nothing would have prepared her for _him_. His sheer presence had been a force nature impossible to ignore. It haunted her well into the night.

It was when she'd almost given up hope of getting any actual rest, that she finally slipped into sleep.

Even that refuge could offer no respite from that piercing, icy gaze.

 


	2. Male Ryder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there I was. Minding my own business, and chatting with some folks on the BSN forums, when the urge to write took me. It took very little encouragement to start this, even though I should know better. Ryder is snarky in this, despite my original plan of writing a more generalized personality.

Few things can properly prepare one for a first contact situation. There were rules and regulations, naturally. Steps one should take to avoid a diplomatic situation. Adopt a nonthreatening posture. Use an even, calm tone of voice. Be polite. Show respect.

That was, of course, assuming everything went smoothly.

If things went pear-shaped? Be prepared to either hit the deck or evac immediately. Screaming and yelling optional, but also unprofessional and highly discouraged.

Ryder was sure being led at gun point to whoever was in charge counted as a diplomatic situation. He had assured the crew he knew what he was doing. He had also assured them that he would have everything under control. He had a plan and a back up plan as well.

In truth, he had a half baked idea glued together with hope and sheer determination. Knowing what to do could never replace actual experience. He had learned that the hard way in basic training. Reading, seeing, and doing usually resulted in a tight rope dance of ravenous butterflies and internally flailing arms. The more important the duty, the more ravenous the butterflies.

It wasn't the only thing weighing him down either. The first time his race had made first contact, it had erupted into war with the Turians. They couldn't afford the same thing happening. Earth might as well not even exist for all the support they could send. 600 years would be too little, too late.

He let his gaze sweep the growing crowd in front of him. It was hard to read the expressions on the unfamiliar alien faces. Hell, it was hard to read the expressions on some of his much more familiar alien crew. The atmosphere, however, felt tense, or perhaps it was all those eyes following him as he was led to the bottom of a short rise of stairs. They pressed in from every direction, curious and wary and _wondering_.

 _Who was this strange alien_ , they probably thought. _Friend? Foe? Something worse?_

 _Nervous_ , he thought back. _This strange alien is nervous as hell and hoping to be the former of that lot, thanks._

Outwardly, he stood straight and tall. Despite his inner emotions, he needed to project an aura of strength and calm. Being nervous would hardly impress anyone, not his crew and certainly not these people. Hope and sheer determination had gotten him this far, after all. Mentally shaking himself, his gaze rose up the stairs to land on the figures standing at the top. He assumed they were in charge, or at the very least, the highest ranking individuals in the vicinity able to deal with the situation.

Two very obviously armed guards stood on either side of three much slimmer figures. They struck him as more feminine than the larger, broad shouldered guards flanking them, but he'd already warned himself many times not to let his perceptions dictate fact in this new galaxy so far away from home. For all he knew, the gender roles were reversed here. He let his gaze jump from one to the next, studying them as they silently did the same.

The low key murmur of alien dialect suddenly changed in pitch, drawing his attention away from the would be females.

It was at that moment that intense blue eyes froze him to the spot as effectively as a direct hit from a cyro round. Ryder wasn't sure where he'd come from. One moment he was making vague comparisons of the new aliens to the Asari and in the next the alien had strode purposely into his view.

His stride never faltered as he stepped down the stairs, his course and target no secret to anyone watching. Ryder hardly noticed the crowd, nor the guards surrounding him. That all consuming gaze had rooted him to the spot and consumed any coherent thought. Later would come the embarrassment, the shame in freezing up when lives depended on him. In the there and then, he could not look away as the alien stepped straight into his personal space and stared him down.

Instinct screamed he not dare look away or blink. The slitted eyes spoke to some forgotten part of him, to ancestors who were both hunters and _hunted_. To look away - to show weakness - invited the hunt.

What only took a few seconds at most in reality, seemed to stretch on and on into forever. It was only when the stranger finally shifted, when he finally spoke that the rest of Ryder's surroundings rushed back to him – when he remembered where he was and just what he was doing – that the damning spell of that gaze broke and he remembered to _breath_.

Later, when all was said and done, and he hadn't somehow started a war, he would tell his crew an abridged version of events. Later still, when he'd thrown himself into his room – not to hide, no, to _rest_ – he'd curse that strange alien over and over.

 _Jaal_ was his name.

He'd not soon forget it. The image was burned into his brain and no amount of will would banish it. It was as if he'd stared into the sun for just a bit too long and now the after image lingered every time he closed his eyes. He could have read the manual a hundred, thousand times, and nothing would have prepared Ryder for _him_. His sheer presence had been a force nature impossible to ignore. It haunted him well into the night.

It was only when he'd almost given up hope of getting any actual rest, that he finally slipped into sleep.

Even that refuge could offer no respite from that piercing, icy gaze.


End file.
